


Birthright

by ms_cris



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Characters have brains, Fix-It, Prophecy, R Plus L Equals J, S7 Fix-It, S8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28182555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_cris/pseuds/ms_cris
Summary: Daenerys searches for her place and her home. The Stark family protects the North. The Lannisters - well - they’re always up to some such machinations.Game of Thrones ends at S7, E1, and here we begin to a better ending for all.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 56





	1. The Mad Queen

“Our families once prospered together.” Daenerys lightly remarked. 

The rival Queens sat in a tent in the shadow of the Dun Fort outside Duskendale each arrayed with a carefully chosen party of soldiers and servants at a lushly laden table of untouched food and wine. Each at one end of the long table regaled in their finery, in their colors regarding the other. With their similar golden beauty, they almost looked as if they could be mother and daughter. The thought soured Cersei’s mood: another younger and more beautiful.

Cersei wanted to scratch the kindly look off the arrogant cunt’s face, but she only offered a faint “Hm.” 

Her eyes scanned those with the Dragon Queen. Tyrion was no where in sight, as the bitch at least had the intelligence to know that no good would come of throwing her murderous brother in her face. Yet the threat of the Dun Fort was not lost on Cersei. What happened to those who crossed the Targaryens? Daenerys would better ask, what happened to those who crossed the Lannisters?

Daenerys continued, “Ser Barristan told me, before his death, that our mothers were the closest of friends. Now here we are two powerful women in world of men. Men who would like nothing more than to take our power. I don’t want to take your power, Lady Lannister.”

“My sister is a Queen,” Jaime interjected. Daenerys didn’t spare him a glance.

“Many men have tried to take my power. I don't remember all their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing, through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any god, not in myths and legends. In myself.”

“I understand what it is to be a woman who has ascended power.” Daenerys paused.

“What do we have to do with the actions of men long dead? Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert Baratheon. Ned Stark. Jon Arryn. Tywin Lannister. They are each moldering in their graves. Why should we fight their war?” Daenerys asked, again pointedly ignoring Jaime. “You are merely the widow of the Usurper Robert Baratheon. You were sold into that marriage to seal a foul deal between your father and your husband but that was your fate as a daughter. You did your duty, but your children are gone. What more do you have to fight for now?”

“You dare to speak to me of my children. You, who allies herself with child murderers.” Cersei hissed. “Tyrion killed my son, Ellaria murdered my daughter, and Olenna as good as killed my youngest with her granddaughter’s schemes.”

“Blood has been shed on both sides.” Daenerys calmly replied, her eyes flickered to Jaime. “How could I forget my niece and nephew ripped from my good sister’s arms and brutally slain? Robert’s reign began with blood, and blood is the reward now.”

“What reign begins without blood?” Cersei sneered. “Did Aegon conquer the Seven Kingdoms with his curtisies?”

Daenerys smile brightened, and she replied, “No, he conquered them with his dragons.”

Daenerys gestured, and the dark-skinned woman who had announced the cunt’s litany of titles came forward with two scrolls. “These are my gifts to you if you choose to be my friend as our mothers were once friends.”

Cersei skimmed over the contents of the documents. First was a declaration naming Cersei as the heir of Casterly Rock and Wardeness of the West. Second was a pardon for Jaime and a retirement from the Kingsguard. 

“Does Tyrion know about this offer of friendship?” Cersei smirked, amused that her scheming brother was still too foolish to see past a beautiful face. He had brought this Dragon bitch to crush Cersei and take all that she held dear, but he was still the poor little unwanted halfling exchanged at the first expediency.

“You are the eldest, and so you are the heir. That is your due as a daughter. Under my rule you will no longer be a prize for the highest bidder but rather a lady of your own rightful lands.”

Cersei sat back in her chair, and gave a low chuckle as she carelessly tossed the scrolls to the table, ”I am not an ordinary woman. My dream was never to rule Casterly Rock after my father. I was born to be Queen, and I am.”

Daenerys looked annoyed as she watched Cersei, “You will die in an inferno of Dragon fire like any other woman. I am being generous.”

“My dear, for all the ways that I may die I will not perish in Dragon fire.” For once Maggie’s words filled Cersei with confidence rather than terror. “I don’t need your generosity.”

Cersei rose, and exited the tent delighted by the barely contained fury of Daenerys’ face. Cersei was not afraid of this pale bitch or her dragons. The Dragon bitch could burn King’s Landing to ash. Cersei smiled at the thought. She recalled the green flames of the Sept as she watched all who opposed her, all who doubted her incinerate in one glorious flash. Burn them all, Cersei thought. 

…

“I will take what is mine.”

Daenerys burned with rage as she looked over the Painted Table, her advisors assembled around her. They plotted, sniped at each other, and planned trying to sway her opinion this way or that. They were Westerosi, and they knew better. She was a foreign Queen.

Tyrion began to respond to Dany. He was always talking, always making a plan or a joke or advising her in some clever ruse, but Daenerys tuned out his droning and merely looked out the large windows to the driving rains and the dark mass of clouds drifting further into the bay. She knew she could not see the Red Keep from Dragonstone, but sometimes she felt if she stared hard enough that she could touch the throne. She saw her hand touching that monstrous throne. 

Since she stepped foot on Dragonstone, thoughts of how close she was to her birthright consumed her. She walked the lands of the island barefoot, paced the halls of the castle running her hands along the rough stone. She was compelled to touch and feel, to know that this was real. All her life Daenerys had dreamed of home. The red door, the khalisar and her dear Drogo, and now all those dreams were crystalizing into the Iron Throne. Now she finally had the power to seize what was hers.

She looked over the Painted Table where Aegon had planned his conquest, at the miniature of the kingdom that was her birthright. Daenerys abruptly cut through the chatter swirling around her, “I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will.” 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion started but Daenerys silenced him with a look. 

Daenerys stepped up and traced the short distance between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, “The Red Keep will burn. Cersei Lannister will burn. Many will be saved with the sacrifice of a few.” 

“Conquering Westeros would be easy for you —“

“And so, I shall!” Daenerys raised her voice. “I am Daenerys Stormborn! I will ride this storm on a moonless night to King’s Landing, and I will take what is mine.”

Tyrion looked alarmed as he shared quick looks with Lord Varys, “Your Grace, you don’t understand my sister. That she rebuffed you so openly. I fear what she has planned for you.”

“We should wait for further reports,” Lord Varys offered. “Whispers reach me.”

“I am not a sheep to wait for a shepherd to herd me,” Daenerys thundered, “I am a Dragon. I will be a Dragon.”

…

“You can’t let her burn this city,” Jaime paced before the Iron Throne.

Jaime felt lost since his return from Riverrun. One by one his world had reduced down to Cersei. His sister had always claimed that he was hers, and she was his. They were always the only thing either of them had ever had and that had seemed beautiful and terrible and something worth his life. The things he did for love, for love of a hateful woman. 

Nothing made sense in this shit life. That was the binding philosophy of Jaime’s existence. First his mother had died, and then his cold father had turn to a man of bitterness and ice in his blood. Tywin hated his brother. Jaime loved his brother. Jaime betrayed his brother - for his own good because Tyrion was worth more. And then. He came to King’s Landing. He was named a King’s Guard, an honor. He still remembered the stench of burning flesh, the Queen’s screams, and how the Mad King shrieked burn them all as Jaime betrayed all sense of honor. What was honor? What was duty? How could a vow be worth more than a million men, women, and children? 

He saw the little children’s bodies wrapped in his father’s cloak laid before Robert’s feet. What was the right side? Apparently the side who won.

But, he had Cersei. He always had Cersei. He had Cersei now.

Cersei laughed, descending from the throne sloshing her wine, “Come, Jaime! You mustn’t worry. Let’s go to bed, so that if the Dragon Queen comes in the night we’ll at least die in each others arms.” 

Jaime frowned as his sister swayed in his arms. “You need to be serious. The city is in danger. We are not the only ones in this city.”

“There is only us.” Cersei replied grasping Jaime’s face, her fingers digging painfully into his skin.

Jaime stared into her wild green eyes. He felt lost, but he kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers and let the habit of his passion take him away. He loved to drown himself in her. Her scent. Her breasts. His hands running up her skirts. They were bold now, bolder than ever in her queenship. Cersei refused fear now.

Jaime broke away before taking her to the floor, “Do you want to die?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“We never talked of the children…” Jaime began awkwardly, “Wanting to, after they. I hear that’s not uncommon. You wouldn’t be alone. You, don’t need to be alone.”

“What happened to you, Jaime?” Cersei scoffed, and pushed him away. The disgust on her beautiful face was plain. “If you won’t be diverted, then I will find another diversion.” 

Jaime flushed with anger and embarrassment for trying to share pain with her, but he wouldn’t be drawn into a game of jealousy. She amused herself with her flirtations, loving to be the lioness admired by all. She toyed with Jaime enjoying her desirability to other men. Let her.

“Do as you will, Your Grace.” Jaime replied coldly. “We are not the only ones in this city, and real plans need to be made to prepare for an attack. You need to have a real plan for how to handle this Dragon Queen.”

Jaime stormed out of the Great Hall to the gardens furious with his sister. He wanted to gather his thoughts before calling a meeting of the Small Council. He stared into the blackness of the dark moonless night, and a realization hit him. He turned back to that hateful woman. The things he did for love.

…

Tyrion rode into King’s Landing near frozen in horror. His scar itched him, and he wished he had a goblet of wine in his hand but he knew he needed to feel this. He thought he would never forget the terrible aftermath of the Blackwater Bay, but the charred remains of the inferno that engulfed the bay paled in comparison to the sight of this once vast city laid to waste before him. Ash. Ash. She would take her throne on a bed of ashes.

Nevertheless Tyrion was ready to play his part. He looked numbly to Lord Varys. They arrived near the Gate of the Gods a head of a large host where a gathering of survivors huddled trying to piece together the tattered remains of their lives. 

No one could know the truth of this matter. No good would come of such an inauspicious start as this, to burn an entire city of innocents. That was not the true character of the Queen he served, but merely an accident. By the Glory of the Seven, he hoped that this was only an accident.

Nevertheless Tyrion dismounted, and began to question the crowd, “What happened here?”

He called out orders to his men to search the area and question the survivors. The cluster about them gathering in the aftermath began to buzz amongst themselves as they recognized the man before them. Tyrion had a distinctive look as the notorious imp. 

A woman dressed as a lady, perhaps a lady’s maid, stumbled out from the crowd. Her dress was singed, and she was disheveled but the quality of her dirty clothing and her bearing marked her as clearly high born. She threw herself at Tyrion and cried out for all to hear, “The Queen, my lord. The Queen! She burned the city as she burnt the Sept rather than be taken from her throne!” 

Shocked cries rang out from the survivors. Tyrion breathed out, “No! She wouldn’t!”

“She did! She raged all night and gave the order to the pyromancers at the blackest point of night!” the lady cried before crumpling into incoherent sobs. 

Tyrion called a man over to carry her away, and Lord Varys spoke over the crowd to Tyrion, “I fear she went mad after Joffrey died, my Lord. The strain of his death broke her. All Cersei saw around her were foes, and she hated the people of King’s Landing for never loving her or her son. She hated you for protecting the city at Blackwater Bay.”

Tyrion shook his head, “I never imagined she would…” 

Tyrion watched from the corner of his eye as several of the onlookers peeled off from the scene, likely to spread the news. His heart hurt for the devastation around him, but as he played his part he remembered the humiliation of his trial. He would ruin her. He would make her infamous for all time. 

Abruptly Tyrion turned as Daenerys rode forward out from amidst her men. The beautiful Dragon Queen appeared fresh and innocent clad in a simple pale lavender gown. Her silver blonde hair was unbound about her shoulders. For once the godforsaken dragons were left behind on Dragonstone, and she looked every inch the girl she was. Only her unnatural beauty marked her as a Queen, but that was enough for the smallfolk that gathered around them. They began to whisper and stared in awe at the unearthly woman before them. How could this girl be the terror they were warned about by Queen Cersei?

Dany surveyed her people, sadness cloaked her delicate features. She was silent a long moment as she took in the destruction before her. “Who would do such a thing? What kind of monster would burn millions?” Daenerys proclaimed, tears streaming from her lovely violet eyes.

Tyrion turned to complete the tableau, “My sister, Your Grace!” 

“We will find her, and we will punish her!” Daenerys declared, shaking with anger. 

“She is dead.” A voice called out from the masses. “She burned herself in the flames! She was mad!”

More called out aghast at this turn of events.

“That is for the best, for she would not have wanted to face my wrath!” Daenerys shone with a cold outrage. “Cersei Lannister slayed my cousin, Robert Baratheon, to cover her sins and prevent our reunion. She killed her father, and framed Tyrion Lannister for the murder. She even killed her own son, his beautiful Queen, and the High Septon to take the throne!”

“She would stop at nothing to claim herself the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Yet no true Queen would behave thus to her people.” Daenerys gestured to the city of ash before her. “A Queen belongs not to herself, but to her people!” 

“I have brought aid to you, my people! Bread! Ale! Healers! I will care for you as your true Queen!” 

The crowd looked stunned by Daenerys’ words, and they peered down the King’s Road to see wagons of supplies rolling towards them. But then, they began to cheer and calls of Good Queen Daenerys and Our Queen could be heard throughout. More smallfolk came out of the gates to greet the wagons and others ran off to tell of what had transpired at the Gate of the Gods. 

Daenerys smiled benefically, and allowed herself to be dismounted to be embraced by her subjects as a savior. Tyrion moved forward into the city with a contingent of guards at his back wanting to see what remained of the Red Keep. As he walk through the devastation of the city, ash falling like snow over his head, he heard snippets of conversation in the streets. 

“She was mad!”

“She framed the Imp, and kilt her own father.”

“She kilt her own son, and beautiful Queen Margery!”

“She kilt King Robert, the High Sparrow said so!”

“Her children were bastards! The Kingslayer’s!” 

Tyrion heard conversation after conversation, many (too many) claiming that they themselves had heard for themselves the truth of the matter at the Gate of the Gods. He heard, and he knew the tales would grow in the telling of them. Soon would be the ballads and then the poems. Next would be the plays. Maybe there would be a fashion. Finally there would be the accounts written by the maesters. Tyrion heard, and against the the backdrop of chaos he smiled a small, dark smile of a man who had won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why the Dun Fort? 
> 
> https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Defiance_of_Duskendale
> 
> Next: Winterfell!


	2. A Daughter of the North

Petyr watched them. 

Lord Baelish had a special skill at watching others. The inability to truly see those around them was one of the weaknesses of the high lords. They were so caught up in watching each other, in regarding those who mattered and disregarding those who did not, that small men like Petyr could glide in and out of their notice without so much as fluttering a feather. 

Jon Snow distrusted Petyr on sight. 

Petyr was use to being disliked, distrusted, and certainly dismissed as a little man from a little House of little importance. Yet most high lords liked an audience. They liked the idea of a lesser lord like Lord Baelish serving them. They felt his “service” their due. Unfortunately Jon was not like a high lord. He made clear at every turn that he would have little of Petyr’s service, and he would have less of Petyr’s presence. Lord Baelish was made to stand in the back when all the Lords met together. He was never invited to break his fast in the solar rather he was sat as far from Jon and Sansa as possible at the High Table. He was not even invited to the Great Keep but made to stay in the Guest House. The insults to a Lord Protectorate of the Vale were laughable yet Petyr couldn’t find it in himself to laugh at another Stark fool.

So, Petyr used his distance to watch them. 

They made a pretty picture together, and he knew the Northern lords thought so too. The approving looks the rough, bearded lords exchanged with each other in the days after the battle as Sansa and Jon ruled Winterfell and sought to set right the North said everything. Petyr could almost hear their banal thoughts: the Return of the Starks, the White Wolf and the Red Wolf, Cat and Ned Reborn. 

Petyr had miscalculated with the Boltons. He had known of Ramsay’s reputation. The rumors surrounding his former wife were wild. Yet gambles were how Lord Baelish climbed and ascended to greater levels of power. Petyr had gambled with Sansa, and he was sorry for it. A little misuse may keep a woman grateful, but Ramsay had so badly misused Sansa so that she had grown wary through her experience. She had become suspicious of Petyr and that would not do.

Lady Barbrey Dustin pulled down the hood of her cloak as she stepped into the abandoned shack in Wintertown. A tall woman, straight and handsome for her years even in her widow’s black, Lady Dustin took in the bare room before her shrewd eyes leveled on Petyr. 

“You’ve called me here, so now speak your part.” 

“My Lady, I wish we could have met in better comfort but these are odd times,” Lady Dustin said nothing merely waiting for Petyr to continue to his point. The lady was not here for sweet words. “I wish to offer you my condolences for your loss.”

“My loss? I had no love for Roose, nor especially the bastard,” Lady Dustin stated in all frankness, “Bethany is dead and gone many years now. I care not that he was my good brother, and I am glad to see the bastard cold in his grave given a taste of his own perverse behavior.”

“Still,” Petyr said unmoved by her frigid manner, “Tales have reached me that have led me to believe that while you may not mourn the fall of House Bolton that neither do you find joy in the rebirth of House Stark. I believe we share a cause.”

“What cause would I have with you?” 

“Love.” A small smirk slit across Petyr’s face.

“Love?”

“When Rickard Stark and Hoster Tully sought to bind their houses together for their ambition, what did they care for the hearts of their children? Brandon Stark fostered in Barrowton, and there in the Rills he fell for a daughter of the North. But, his father’s southron ambitions tore the lovers apart forever,” Petyr paused to observe the effects of his story, “Or, some do say.”

Lady Dustin appeared disinterested but Petyr could see her curiosity was piqued by his words. She moved closer into the room.

“Some do say many things.” Lady Dustin replied, “What does an old heartache have to do with you?”

“I have only ever loved one woman, and the day she was betrothed to another broke my heart,” Petyr confessed, his dark eyes earnest, “I still bare the scar from navel to collarbone from when I foolishly challenged her betrothed to a duel.”

“You? Duel Brandon?” 

“I was in love with her, and she was in love with me,” Petyr answered with a shrug, “I was an imprudent boy in a desperate moment. Would you have stinted to duel Catelyn if your sex wouldn’t have prohibited you?”

“A lady is not allowed a sword, but if I had I would have cut her down.” Lady Dustin confirmed.

“You are a fierce woman. I had heard that about you,” Petyr said, “You found love after Brandon’s death, but here you are in your widow’s black because of Ned Stark. No husband’s bones to even bury yourself, because of Ned Stark.”

“The Starks have never done right by me,” the lady responded bitterly, “My William might be here still if Ned had not taken him to Dorne. My House might have grown and prospered if not for Ned Stark. He stole my legacy from me.”

“I do not wish to see the son of Ned Stark prosper.” 

Lady Dustin’s lips drew back into a chilling smile, “Neither do I.”

“When the great lords plot and war, we are the kind who are trampled under their boots. Yet there are advantages to their blindness to us. Many misadventures can happen in the dark.”

…

“Do you think this is true?” Sansa asked, looking to the men assembled at the Small Council table. 

An old closet in the Great Hall had been cleared for use as a Council Chamber after the last larger gathering of the lords. Jon had taken seriously the observation that he needed advisors around him. A round table, like something out a song, was placed in the center and the new steward had made sure to hang fine tapestries of the powerful and untamed Kings of Winter beside Jon’s newly sewn White Wolf banners. 

“Do you doubt it, my Lady?” Ser Davos responded.

“No... Cersei was…” Sansa struggled to put into words her thoughts on the woman who had been her tormentor for all those years in King’s Landing. She did not want to defend the wicked creature, but there were times when the Queen almost seemed to want to help Sansa. She seemed almost motherly in a dark, twisted manner as if she saw her cruelty as a lesson for her ‘little dove.’ What would Cersei Lannister gain from razing King’s Landing? Would a vain creature like Cersei truly end her own life? To what purpose? “… vicious and power hungry. She had no love for the people, nor they for her even before her walk for atonement. But, what do we know of this Daenerys Targaryen? Why should we take her word for such an outrageous tale?”

“They say she cut a crimson trail through Essos, more Dothraki warlord than Lysian lady,” Artos Flint answered, “I heard she burned Astapor with her dragons barely out of the shell and seized a slave army to march on Yunkai, then she crucified a 1000 Great Masters in Meereen.” 

Lord Manderly nodded his head in agreement. “Those are the tales going around White Harbor too.”

Although Sansa schooled her features to remain cooly disinterested, her stomach turned at these bloody reports. This newcomer to the war for the Iron Throne sounded like a terrifying figure. 

“Now they say she has three grown dragons.” The Commander of the Guard concluded, and no one looked comforted at that final statement. 

“Tyrion Lannister is known to you, Your Grace — and Lady Sansa.” Maester Wolkan murmured, before more confidently stating, “He’s her Hand.”

“Tyrion?” Jon’s brows drew together at the familiar name. Jon had stayed mostly silent after Maester Wolkan had read the lengthy missive from King’s Landing taking in his advisor’s words. He knew very little of Southern politics. “He was a friend to me when we travelled together to the Wall, but your lady mother suspected that he had something to do with Bran’s accident. She seized him and brought him before your Aunt before father was taken by the Lannisters.”

“Tyrion is clever, more honorable than his reputation would have him, but I can’t see what motive he would have had to hurt Bran. Aunt Lysa never spoke of mother’s visit or what evidence she brought at his trial,” Sansa responded, shaking her head in heavy thought, “But Tyrion, he hated his sister. And, she him. Tyrion was always kind to me, but I don’t know if I would trust his opinion on her.”

“Tyrion was tried for kinslaying, murdering his own nephew,” Lord Flint commented, flicking his eyes to Sansa.

Sansa stayed pointedly silent, as Jon frowned at Lord Flint. Artos Flint had a gruff, frank way about him as was the habit of the Northern mountain clans. He was a respected warrior, having served with Stannis Baratheon before his ill-fated battle for Winterfell, but he did not have a politician’s care with his words. 

“And this missive says here now, that Cersei murdered her own father and her husband too,” Lord Ironsmith, the new Master of Coin, reminded them. The twists and turns of the narrative laid out in the letter were fit for a great melodrama of the stage.

“King’s Landing is a nest of vipers.” Brynden Tully, Sansa’s Great Uncle, observed in a disapproving tone.

“What can we make of this sentimental tale of King Robert’s remorse?” Lord Manderly, the new Master of Laws, questioned in his booming voice. He snatched the scroll from the table, where Sansa had laid the parchment, and read aloud in mocking tone, “He repented his bloody rise to the throne. Having discovered the bastardy of his own children, he was convinced that his wife’s lechery was the Gods’ reproach for allowing Tywin Lannister to prosper from the deaths of the little prince and princess. He was on the eve of recalling Daenerys from Essos to make her his young bride in recompense for his part in the sin when Cersei struck him down.” 

Sansa remembered how fine King Robert, Demon of the Trident, had struck the Queen. He had struck her in front of all his men, her father, and her father’s men. He had struck her in front of his children and both her and her sister. Cersei had not even looked shocked or chastened by the blow. She had looked angry. That was not the response of a woman who had been struck once or twice, but a woman use to the blows of a husband’s fists. 

“We should keep our attention on the North,” Jon concluded, clearly having lost patience with the political chicanery that was the lifeblood of King’s Landing, “Whether or not Cersei Lannister was the cause of the destruction of King’s Landing, this Queen Daenerys is going to be busy with rebuilding the city if she can find the funds and settling discontent in the South. With Winter here, we may not hear from her or her army until another year or more passes. For the moment we need to ready ourselves and find some dragon glass.”

“She has requested you visit her at Dragonstone,” Ser Davos cautioned, “Perhaps we should send an emissary? We defy a woman with dragons and a fresh foreign army outright at our peril.”

“Tell her we are indisposed,” Sansa suggested. She turned to directly face Jon, her hand stretching out to lightly clasp his forearm. “If she imagines herself to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, then needs be she must defend the Seven Kingdoms. Ask her for aid.”

“We’ll at least buy ourselves some further time,” Jon remarked, half smiling at Sansa’s clever proposal.

The council discussed the potential content of the dispatch as Maester Wolkan took note, before moving on to the business of the North. So much needed to be set right, and more needed to be prepared for Winter and the coming War for the Dawn. Jon delegated tasks and discussed the challenges of each of his council members. He was a good leader, fair like father, and he was trying to become better. Sansa loved that about him. Yet Sansa worried herself over how all would be accomplished, how she and Jon would be able to stay ahead of all their enemies and the ever shifting landscape of political fortune. Sansa knew better than anyone how one mistake could alter your life, how one day could shift your future forever. 

Jon dismissed the Small Council, ready to discuss the progress of the weapons with Boyd, the blacksmith, then adjourn to his Office. Jon preferred a smaller, more plain office furnished with a sturdy desk and hangings of a simple hunting scene for his daily duties in the Great Keep, and he claimed the solar should be for comfort of the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa thought she should perhaps wait for him there, but she wanted to give Jon time to consider her likely unwanted words. 

“You Grace, may I ask you to wait a moment here?” Jon nodded, and Sansa faltered as he resettled himself in the seat beside her. After the harsh words between them these past weeks, Sansa was trying to adjust her approach to Jon. What made her so unsure and discontent around him? She found herself watching his handsome face; his wild curls pulled back, his soft lips peaking out from his neatly trimmed beard.

He started without her, presupposing her thoughts, “I already know you think I’ve been too lenient on the Houses who’ve been disloyal to us.”

And Sansa rose to the occasion, easily directing her confused feelings to an old disagreement.

“Allowing the children who lead the Umbers and the Karstarks to be free of the sins of their fathers is one matter,” Sansa fumed, her cheeks heating, “but Lady Dustin and the Ryswells are another matter altogether. They called for Roose after he murdered our brother.”

“They too lost men at the Red Wedding. They had no part in Roose’s plans. I can’t punish them for being cowed unless I wish to further divide the North,” Jon entreated, clasping Sansa’s hands, “Sansa, we need every man we can get in the War for the Dawn.” 

“We need to not leave weeds who can choke our garden.” Sansa warned, just as earnestly leveling her gaze at Jon. Realizing that she had allowed the conversation to get away from her, Sansa started again in a softer tone. “But, no. I — you need to invite Lord Baelish to break his fast with us - at least once - and give him a seat in the Great Hall if not on this Council.”

Jon’s expression turned hard and his eyes dark at Baelish’s name. He held her hands tighter.

“Jon, you cannot go on insulting him as you have. The Lords of the Vale have no love for him but you insult them and you insult my cousin Sweetrobin when you refuse to grant him his due.” Sansa held his hands as dear, wanting him to understand that the grave danger they were in was far closer than above the Wall. “Only the young bloods bruised over my Aunt Lysa’s refusal to war with Rob, hungry for glory support Baelish but you give the lords common cause with Baelish when you spurn him.” 

Jon looked away, sullen and as if he’d drunk a bitter draught.

“We need every man we can get in the War for the Dawn — even Lord Baelish and especially the Knights of the Vale.”

“I will consider it,” Jon ground out, plainly displeased at the thought of the concession. 

“Thank you, Jon. I know making peace is difficult,” Sansa wanted to hug him but held back her affections. She rose and let her hands slip from his, “I will need to join the women in the Godswood to sing the funerary hymns.”

Jon nodded, rising himself to join Davos and his squires waiting in the Hall, “Thank you, Sansa. Thank you for seeing to these niceties. I know how important they are to repairing — what has been done.”

Sansa gave Jon a tight lipped smile then left the Council Chambers. Her heart was pitter-pattering in her chest as she swept past Larence and Satin standing by the chamber door. Sansa held her head high, her distinctive red tresses flowing behind her, but she felt none of the poise she displayed to the world. Did she give true advice to Jon?

She heard Petyr’s words whisper through her recollection, _Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind._

How could you hold close someone like Littlefinger and not be snarled in his web?

…

At the edge of her slumber Arya swore she heard the howling of wolves.

The ruins of Moat Cailin were not an easy place for a rest. Worry churned through Arya’s body, her breath caught and her palms sweated even in the unnatural chill, and the feeling was unfamiliar. Arya hadn’t truly worried about anything since the Hound had dragged her away from the Twins that awful night. She wasn’t afraid of the ruins or any animals that might be lurking in the night.

Arya was worried about returning to her home. What was home anymore?

Yet Winterfell drew her. The draw was stronger than her desire for revenge. Arya didn’t fully understand how this could be true but something in her called for her to return home to protect her family. Jon was her family. Sansa was her family. Maybe they would find Bran and Rickon too?

If Arya could still be alive through all this time, then maybe they were alive too.

Hope was another unfamiliar feeling swirling in Arya’s heart. Arya hoped that her siblings would accept her. She hoped that one day she could tell them of her travels. She hoped that they would understand what she had been through, what she had had to do and what she had wanted to do.

Did she hope, or did she worry?

Arya rose from her pallet. She needed to clear her mind of these thoughts. A girl grabbed Needle and began her Water Dance. Her mind drained of worry, of hope and any other unfamiliar emotion as she flowed through her forms. 

…

“Who will be named Lord of Hornwood?” Jon asked, shifting the letters that littered the writing desk Sansa had insisted he install in the solar. They had been ignoring this question for two months now. Jon had brought Larence Snow to be his squire, much to Lord Glover’s satisfaction, but he had not settled the matter one way or another.

Sansa looked up from her mending, her hair lit aflame by the firelight, somewhat startled by Jon’s abrupt question, “Hornwood is yours to do with as you wish, the Dreadfort too.”

Jon rose from his writing desk, stretching out his stiff muscles. He considered Sansa’s words, but he misliked meting out the former Bolton lands as if he had the right. Sansa had paid more than a fair price to lay claim to both holdings but Jon did not want to remind her of that awful truth when clearly she’d rather forget her former captivity. 

“Do you wish me to go to Hornwood?” Sansa asked in a deceptively calm tone, “Winterfell is the seat of the Kings of Winter.”

Jon stopped cold in shock, and turned to Sansa. Her Tully blue eyes were as placid as a crystalline Northern lake. Her aristocratic features schooled to give away nothing.

“Never,” Jon breathed, “Winterfell is your home, your birthright. I would never take that from you.”

Sansa was quiet a moment considering Jon’s pledge. She set aside her sewing, her delicate hands carefully placing her latest project in a basket by her chair.

“You already have, Your Grace.”

Jon fell silent. He felt the rightness of the rebuke, and had little to say in the response. All her lady mother’s fears had come to pass. They had retaken Winterfell together. They had taken Winterfell because of Sansa’s will and Sansa’s wit. Sansa had even won them the battle while Jon had nearly cost them everything, but Jon had been preferred over a trueborn child due to his sex. Where was the right in that? Jon had known strong, capable women. Women could rule as well as any man, and Sansa in these past months had proven herself again and again to him. Yet Jon was preferred. 

“I don’t- I don’t really mean that,” Sansa rushed, “I’m just scared.”

She paused to collect herself, and went to Jon.

“I’m scared of the Long Night. I can scarcely imagine an Army of the Dead, an inhuman foe. Men are bad enough.” Sansa shook, and Jon took her in his arms trying to offer some comfort. She laid her head on his shoulder. “But, I’m most scared of what we’ll have to do to consolidate our forces.”

“You think I mean to use you to seal some bargain.”

Sansa drew back, her eyes bright in the darkness. “I think you can’t afford not to, not at some point Jon.”

“At some point you’ll need to form alliances and create stronger ties. We may not have time in the North, and we can’t ignore the South forever. You’ll need to take a Queen, and she will not want to share a home with a Lady of Winterfell. I will need to take a husband; a husband who can serve our cause.”

“You may take a husband someday,” Jon said plainly ignoring any talk of a Queen. His hand caressed her cheek. Sansa was more than just a beauty. She was clever, funny, and a joy for a man to have beside him. Jon wished that she could see that about herself. “But on that day, that husband will be your choice. You need not marry at all, but if you do then the man will be good, honorable, and kind. He will be yours because of you not because of some cause.”

Sansa looked as if she might cry, but then a quiet sadness fell over her face.

“You think I’m being naive,” Jon said, with a pained smile.

“Life is not a song,” Sansa replied wistfully, “I have had what I am - the key to the North - beaten into me since I was a girl. We cannot change what is.”

Sansa kissed Jon’s cheek, then withdrew herself from his arms.

“You should legitimize Larence on his next name day.”

Sansa bid Jon good night, and retreated to her room. 

Jon sank in his seat by the fire. He felt defeated by the conversation. When Jon wanted to live by his ideals, Sansa had a way of grounding him. He needed that. Too many men lived less by vision, and more by fear. One would think that Jon wouldn’t need to be reminded of that truth when he bore the scars as permanent mementos on his body. 

Did he really wonder that she felt compelled to surround herself with a man like Petyr Baelish? Whatever the man lacked in character, he was at least her ally. He certainly wasn’t Jon’s friend. Whom did Sansa have around her? 

A Lady Knight and her squire. 

Her Great Uncle. 

What would they do if the King in the North decided he needed his sister as a piece to play the game?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is the Blackfish alive when he suicided by Lannister in S6? Because, sometimes I just can't. Family. Duty. Honor. He still had family, so he needed to do his duty.
> 
> This fic is a mix of the ASOIAF and GOT. I am not re-writing the books or writing what I think will happen in the books (as if!) nor am I re-writing everything that went awry in GOT (that would just be read ASOIAF) but rather jumping off at the most reasonable point to provide what is to me a strong finish to the show. 
> 
> So, I just unwrote the Blackfish's death. I will take care to be clear when I include book details that counter established GOT facts but please ask questions if anything is questionable for you.


	3. The Mummer’s Dragon

“A hundred or more Freys all dead in a night. No host assembled, not a drop of blood spilt.” 

Varys sounded disturbed. 

Tyrion watched the Unsullied far below march about the blackened streets of King’s Landing like a mass of nameless, faceless ants. Each was engaged in organizing the crews of mud-spattered men drawn from the camps in clearing salvageable sections of the city. Queen Daenerys was to be crowned in a month in the shell of the Great Hall in front of the Iron Throne. Much of the city had been destroyed beyond reckoning — great pits gouged the land, the few bodies not incinerated rotted in the rubble, and pestilence swept through the camps of the displaced stationed around what was once the capitol of Westeros. Yet somehow that damnable throne remained; and so, there was to be a coronation in the mud, shit, and ashes.

“Do you know who was behind the attack?” Tyrion asked, “Poison is a woman’s weapon, they say.”

“What leads you to conclude this was poison, my lord?” Varys demurred.

“My Aunt Genna wrote stating she had gathered as much when she sent her men to the Twins, before the Brotherhood took her hostage at Riverrun.”

Varys raised his brow, as if he hadn’t already read Tyrion’s correspondences with his newly widowed aunt. She was unfortunately detained until Edmure Tully could be brought from Casterly Rock. The hostage-lord was to bend the knee to Daenerys to earn his freedom before next being sent to quell the disturbances the Frey deaths had wrought in the Riverlands; nevertheless she was still an excellent source of information. Her mind was sharp as the Lannister cheekbones.

“Why, yes. Tully loyalists are everywhere in the Riverlands,” Varys responded dryly, clasping his hands together as he too surveyed the work crews carrying carefully shrouded body after body next to mounds of stone from the city, “The most popular tale circulating the alehouses has it that the ghost of Catelyn Stark herself rose from the banks of the Green Fork and took her rightful vengeance on the Frey’s just as her daughter exterminated the Bolton’s. Why, one thrilling twist even has it that she appeared as the ghost of her slain grandson as she exited the Great Hall.” 

Tyrion chuckled uncomfortably, recalling the fierceness of Lady Stark. “If I were Catelyn Stark, I’d certainly stalk the Riverlands killing Frey’s. Dead or no.”

“My, that would be a sight to see.” Varys sighed wearily, then glanced at Tyrion with a wry expression. “Though an angry mother would as like string them up from trees. Poison is an assassin’s weapon.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes widened, “Who would have the gold for that?”

“A certain friend of ours has risen quite high in the world,” Varys observed. 

Tyrion followed the eunuch’s far off gaze as he watched as a small gathering of Dothraki wrapped in a patchwork of furs taunted a beggar woman near the newly constructed entrance to the city. Clearly they desired to do her some mischief until an Unsullied stormed their way to keep the peace. Nowhere as disciplined as the Unsullied, the horse lords often clashed with the military men charged with maintaining the rebuilding efforts. Day-by-day small bands of the savages pealed off to further explore the countryside. Yet the darker-skinned former slaves received no thanks from the Westerosi too bitter and miserable in the relentless death surrounding them to regard the differences between these interlopers.

“Lord Protectorate of the Vale, I’ll say.” Tyrion considered Varys’ suspicions weighing what advantage Littlefinger could gain from exterminating the Frey’s. He’d heard the man brag of his connection to Catelyn Stark, but after how Catelyn had responded to the implication he’d thought Baelish’s boasts more fanciful than real. Yet perhaps, he had just traded sister for sister and now sought to consolidate his hold from the Vale to the Riverlands in truth. “I recall the height of those sky cells.” 

“Yet I must ask, where would he have gotten the gold?”

“Where wouldn’t he have?” Tyrion scoffed, recalling the master of coin’s ledgers. “Littlefinger has a gift with gold. All he need do is snap his fingers, and surely he could find some of Robert’s coin that way.”

Varys pursed his lips, pondering Tyrion’s revelation. “Now he’s in the North with your little Dove and her bastard brother.”

“That was Cersei’s vile nickname for her.” Tyrion frowned at the thought of his former wife. He was glad that she had made her way to her home. She deserved to survive the cesspit of King’s Landing, but seeing her connection to Littlefinger more clearly he was concerned for the throne. Now maybe the man played at swapping mother for daughter. Maybe that was the game all along, and solved a mystery much closer to Tyrion’s heart. “You think he means to crown Sansa Stark as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He’ll need to crown her Queen of the North first, but that may be more easily achieved if he can arrange for her brother to war against our Queen.”

“May the Gods help us,” Tyrion sighed, “Problems upon problems lay heaped at our Queen’s delicate feet. What will she do?”

Varys again looked disturbed, until a smooth mask fell over his expression. “She’ll need to rule _in_ King’s Landing. Her attentions are needed here. Already we’re too dependent on the Reach with first Yara busy harrying the unburnt half of her uncle’s fleet northward these past months and now Dorne in rebellion against Ellaria Sand.” 

“What a pity, that.” Tyrion shrugged, unable to keep to himself a small dark smile.

“I would think you could at least pretend to be surprised by the news.” Varys said, feigning exasperation.

Tyrion looked at his friend evenly, “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Varys waved off Tyrion’s comment. Clearly the eunuch felt no particular kinship with child killers.

“Manfrey will prove a reliable ally, more steady.” 

Tyrion nodded as Varys continued, “Yet she’ll need to legitimize Edric Storm now, lend more credibility to this mummer’s farce about Robert. Lord Buckler is too fair-weather by far, and although Old Lord Whitehead joined his men and heir to Queen Daenerys’ forces, the stormlords want Edric.”

“Then they shall have him, and we an indebted friend.” Tyrion marshaled the doubts that whispered through his mind.

“Will our Queen agree as easily as you?”

“This is her chance to prove she’s different from Robert, from her father.” Tyrion tried to sound optimistic. He knew he could not afford to be wrong about Daenerys, none of them could afford that amount of gold.

“That will be a lively discussion.” 

“More the better to keep her away from the Vale or the North,” Tyrion found himself again staring at the charred landscape, still unable to reconcile the city that he knew with the burnt husk before him, “Cersei like Lady Catelyn is too dead to be blamed for another disaster.”

…

Dany dreamt she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. A dragon soared beneath her rather than a horse. When she saw the rebel host across the river, a river that cut the land like a great wall of water, they were armored all in ice. Dany bathed them in dragonfire. Dracarys. The mass of men melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Dany was warmed by the rightness of her wrath. _This is how it was meant to be._ The other night was a nightmare, and now she had awakened to her truth.

Dany awoke with a jolt yet she did not rise preferring to turn her face away from the pale sunshine filtering through her windows. All the light was pale as the ash hung in the air month after month, before giving way to unrelenting rains and a creeping chill that infiltrated the bones. Dany firmly closed her eyes yet heard the tinkling laugher of Lady Ermesande in the distance, and while the child often brightened Dany’s day, the Queen instead lay abed caught between her dreams and her nightmares. She did not want to wake to this day.

Missandei quietly entered Dany’s chambers, “My Queen?”

Dany eventually rose from her bed every day. She dressed in fine clothing fit for a Queen. She met with her advisors, visited with the small folk camped around the decimated city, heard the concerns of the lords who knelt before her, and alternately wore expressions of great compassion or just knowing on her face. Daenerys was hailed as a good Queen. She felt like a puppet, like a mummer’s dragon.

“My son would have been of an age with Lady Ermesande if the witch had not stolen him from me.”

Dany turned to her friend, and Missandei perched herself on the bed. The dark-skinned girl took Dany’s hand and gave her Queen a somber look, “Being home must bring these discomforting thoughts. I too often think what if…”

Dany did not hear the rest of Missandei’s words, her attention wandering away from the young woman before her. Home? Where was that? Dany thought if she could just take what was hers then she might make herself a home in her so-called homeland. Yet Westeros felt like an ill-fitting shoe, wearing at her every step day by day. 

“How old do you think that girl would be by now?”

“My Queen?” Missandei’s brow furrowed, not following Dany’s thoughts. “What girl?”

“I can’t remember her name,” Dany sighed, then rose to dress for her day. “I could never remember all their names now.”

Missandei wordlessly gestured for Dany’s handmaidens to enter the room. Dany had the finest and largest room in Hayford, the Lord’s chamber, as little Lady Ermesande still occupied the nursery in her home. Dany now had proper lady’s maids intermixed with the Dothraki and Meereenese women who served as her personal servants. They descended on their Queen to make her beauty shine as Missandei talked of Dany’s schedule. 

Petty dispute after petty dispute was all Dany heard in her audience chamber. These Westerosi lords were more tedious than the Meereenese. Dany tried to reign in her impatience. _A Queen belongs not to herself, but to her people._ Listening to lords natter on about lands and titles was better than being witness to the suffering in the camps. Dany did her best to provide but first came the coughing sickness, then the rains and now the flux. Many died, and there was little Dany could do for them. Sometimes Dany wanted to die with them when she thought of what she had done, how her recklessness had wrought such horror. 

“Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys wish to speak with you about the upcoming coronation once you break your fast.” 

“First I will attend to my children, then my small council.”

“Only Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys have asked for an audience.” 

Mindful of the new women in her service, Dany nodded thoughtfully refraining from a frown. Her blood heated at their high-handedness. They - the eunuch and the dwarf - often requested private audiences with her. They had insisted she name lords to her small council, especially once she had named Grey Worm Lord Commander of her Queen’s Guard; one from the Reach, another from Dorne, a maester from Oldtown on his way and last one from the Iron Islands like a matched set. Yet they behaved as if the whole of her advisors were only them.

Admiring herself in the looking glass, Dany dismissed her handmaidens with compliments on their fine work. As the women exited the chamber, Dany turned to Missandei.

“Do you think -“ Dany started as she tried to express her frustrations with her closest advisors. “Tyrion and Varys ask too much of me.”

Missandei froze, then slowly responded to her Queen.

“Lord Tyrion served you loyally in Meereen while Lord Varys brought Westerosi allies to your cause. And they —“ Missandei abruptly cut short her words, fumbling to alter the direction of her thoughts. “But yes, you would be better served by making a council of the common men and women of this land.”

“A council of the commoners…” Dany was enchanted by the idea. Not even her great grandfather had dreamed of such reforms.

Missandei bowed her head and spoke carefully, “How can these high lords alone know what is needed in this land?”

“Hm. You council me wisely Missandei,” Dany smiled brightly at her dearest friend, “A queen must listen to all. The highborn and the low, in many there is always truth.”

Thoughts of reform carried the young Queen to the Great Hall. Perhaps the maesters might have copies of the laws put into place by Aegon V? They might provide a guide as a starting point. That maester might yet prove actually useful to her cause. Dany could build a council of the lowborn. Why else might the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?

…

Missandei was shaken as she recalled the conversation with the Red Priestess.

“My Queen, we should discuss the matter of the stormlands.”

“An invitation to Edric would be a gracious gesture of a benevolent Queen, the good Queen Daenerys.”

“We do need to make allies of the lords of Westeros, Your Grace.” 

Missandei was of an age with her Queen, maybe slightly younger, yet sometimes the silver-haired woman seemed so young and strangely innocent despite how fiercely she commanded men around her or how she rode a great black dragon. No matter how she burnt and razed cities with those same dragons. Her Queen did not know how these worshippers of R’hllor dazzled you, how they would whisper with such profound conviction of good and evil, light and dark, fire and ice. Missandei had seen more than a few fall into their fervor, the loneliest and the most hopeless were especially vulnerable to them. 

“What of the North?” Daenerys’ question was abrupt, hard. 

Tyrion and Varys paused at the Queen’s words, neither looked to the other but Missandei sensed their unified alarm. Daenerys sat imperiously in the grand chair that served as her makeshift throne waiting for an answer. Missandei knew she was pleased to have unnerved her advisors.

“The North is far, Your Grace, while the troubles of King’s Landing and the South are directly in front of us.” Tyrion pulled himself straight, and while his voice spoke clear and true, he somehow seemed to be pleading with his Queen. “We need to root ourselves and grow strong here.”

Daenerys had the cold look of her as she did when she negotiated with the Yunkai.

“Lord Tyrion does speak truly, My Queen.” Missandei stepped forward hesitantly, “The people suffer here. Winter is coming, and we need to prepare by shoring up the stores and replacing what was lost in the calamity. Although they would never complain of it, your own men chill in this wintery land.”

Missandei shot a quizzical glance at Tyrion as he winced at her words. She was trying to assist him. However Daenerys did not seem to hear her young translator. She only had eyes for her advisors.

“Jon Snow has requested aid from us,” Daenerys asserted, “How am I to claim myself the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if I do not protect the all of these seven kingdoms?”

“We can’t know for certain what is or is not happening in the North.” Tyrion spread his hands wide, palm up in a helpless gesture.

“We need more information, My Queen.” Varys interjected, “We need to be guided by caution.”

“Do you believe this Jon Snow a liar?” Daenerys leaned forward in her chair. Her question was calm. Her violet eyes landed first on Tyrion then Varys challenging them to dissuade her. “If he is a plotter and a dissembler, how can I leave the North to him?”

“The North is a rather different land.” Tyrion stated, carefully. “The old tales hold more sway during cold, dark winters.”

“Dragons were dead, until I returned them to this world through fire and blood.” 

_I believe you have a role to play._ The Red Priestess’ words rang through Missandei’s head. Missandei remembered that awful day in the arena. Daenerys left them. Daenerys mounted her dragon and flew away; far, far away from the blood and the dirt and the struggle of Meereen. Daenerys had saved her, made her reborn as a free woman. Daenerys had left her in that arena to live or die by her own wit or will. 

“If creatures of fire can be reborn in this world, why not creatures of ice?”

“Varys and I thought we could send an emissary, perhaps a Hightower or a Tyrell.”

“Varys and you thought?” Daenerys’ delicate features looked as carved from ice. Her anger was plain.

“We wanted to put our heads together to present you with the best options. The cares of rulership are many, and we only wish to —”

“You wish to husband me.” Daenerys’ words were final. “If I had need of a Prince Consort, I would take one of my choice.”

Tyrion bowed wordlessly, his mismatched eyes downcast.

“What of the council?” Missandei asked the question before she had time to think better of her words. “We spoke of building a coalition of the lowborn. We talked of the plan over the day’s first meal.”

“Oh, yes.” Daenerys replied in a distracted tone. “You should put together such a plan.”

“Your Grace, the lords — they —“ Tyrion’s words tumbled over themselves.

Daenerys cut off his rambling, “You, Lord Tyrion, will make yourself useful. You will find lands and titles suitable for _Lady_ Missandei so that these lords will know of the trust I place in her, then you will name her my Lady Justiciar.”

Daenerys unceremoniously rose from her makeshift throne and swept past her advisors, leaving them in stunned silence. 

No one spoke for a moment, then Varys turned to Missandei. His face was an unreadable mask. “Congratulations, my Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that throughout this chapter I either quote or paraphrase lines from GOT and ASOIAF. 
> 
> Next: Sansa. Jon. Arya. Harold Hardyng. Baelish.


End file.
